“I was invited.”
“By whom?”
“Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. He called and said he wanted to see me. Urgent. So here I am. Where is his Honor?”
“In his study.” Wienick gestured theatrically. “This door. Be my guest.”
I should have known — but it always comes as a surprise. Judge Bolt was sitting behind his desk, smiling. The smile was purely technical, lips pulled back in rigor over porcelain dentures. His face was tissue-gray, eyes blank and sightless, staring into the far distance of eternity. A single bullet had pierced his right temple, plowing through the jellied matter of his brain and emerging over his left ear. I should have known because Wienick, after all, was Homicide. Why else would he be here if someone’s exit had not been accelerated through violent means?
My stomach convulsed like a fist and I got the hell out of there. Wienick’s grin was more or less genuine.
“Well, what do you make of it?” he asked.
“Contact wound,” I said. “Somebody didn’t trust his marksmanship. He walked right up close and pulled the thing. I believe I saw powder burns at the point of entry.”
“You said, ‘He walked up close.’ How do you know it’s a he? Maybe it was a she.”
“Maybe. Manner of speaking, that’s all.”
“You know the judge’s wife?”
“Met her once.”
“The rumor is they were feuding. Seems she occasionally strayed from the fireside for a little extracurricular activity.”
“I don’t listen to rumors, Sergeant.”
“Yeah. Anyway, this one knocks the props out from under the U.S. against Ira Madden.”
“Not likely,” I said. “They’ll declare a mistrial, naturally, and then start all over again.”
“So the taxpayer gets clobbered again. All that time and money down the drain.”
“A drop in the bucket, Sergeant. Look how much we waste on wars, on hardware lobbed into space. Look how much we pay farmers not to grow things.”
“You a Communist or something?”
“Hardly. What cooks with this shooting? Are there any clues?”
“Not yet. We only caught the squeal about an hour ago. The M.E. hasn’t even arrived yet.”
“Who notified you?”
“The widow.”
“She contribute anything?”
“Only a couple of sentences. Said she’d been to a late movie and found him like this when she came home. Then she began to get hysterical, running around like a chicken, accusing union goons. A truly magnificent performance. Then her doctor rushed in. He got a hammerlock on her and used his needle. Must have been one hell of a blast. In two minutes she was horizontal. She’s in her bedroom now, sleeping it off.”
“Any servants?”
“One. Housekeeper. This is her day off.”
“So the judge was all alone when it happened.”
“Alone except for one other person — his executioner.”
“You’re really clicking today, Sergeant. Any sign of the weapon?”
“Who’d be stupid enough to leave a piece that can be traced?”
“Have you searched the house?”
It got me a long-suffering look. “Up, down and sideways. Nothing.” But his eyes seemed evasive.
“Come on, Sergeant,” I said. “Lift the lid.”
“You clairvoyant or something?”
“I can tell when you’re sitting on something.”
“Keep your nose clean, Counselor. This is police business. The lieutenant would skin me alive.”
“Where is the lieutenant?”
“Convention. Philadelphia.”
“We always pool our information. You know that. So, please, Sergeant, lay it out for me.”
Wienick lapsed into a small private huddle. He worked his lips for a moment, but finally he sighed, shrugged, and said, “On the other side of the judge’s study is a bedroom. Adjoining door. Cigarette smoke in there, a lot of it. Not stale. And many butts in the ash tray. The assassin was sitting in there, waiting for him to come home.”
“Not the judge’s butts?”
“The judge smoked only cigars.” Wienick looked piously down his nose. “Genuine Havanas. I hear he bought them from a Swedish diplomat.”
“The wife’s butts maybe?”
“She quit smoking when the Surgeon General made his announcement, she says. The doctor verifies it. But hell, that’s not conclusive. Somebody gets uptight-back to the old habits.”
“You’re too eager, Sergeant, straining to tag the wife for this.”
“We don’t have anybody else.”
“What about Ira Madden and his union muscle? Or outside talent for hire? Would it be the first time those clowns tried to break up a trial?”
“It’s a possibility, sure, and we’ll check it out. We’ll have help, too. With a U.S. judge involved, maybe the FBI will stick its nose in.” Wienick showed me his teeth, like the yellowed keyboard of an old piano. “Those boys will not take kindly to the meddling of a local mouthpiece.”
“I am not a mouthpiece, Sergeant. I am a high-class attorney and counselor-at-law.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Granted. I am not meddling. The judge initiated this visit. He was worried about something and he wanted to see me.”
“He had reason to be worried. So what are your plans now?”
“Maybe I’ll just go home and forget about it.”
“That would be a very wise decision. Still, the lieutenant may want to see you when he gets back.”
“The lieutenant knows my number. I’m in town for the duration.” I paused at the door and waved. “Happy hunting, Sergeant.”
The sudden and violent demise of Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt was too late for the evening paper — not plural; singular. A city like New York — eight million people — and only one evening newspaper; all the others had folded. Bad management? Excessive union demands? Who knows? But the morning papers — and only two of those — bannered it big, with editorials. Nobody had the answers.
Then, early in the afternoon, I had another call — from the widow this time. Could I please come over for a family conference? The judge’s daughter from his first marriage and her husband would be there. But please come a little early. The widow would like a few moments alone with me.
Laura Bolt, nee Pederson, a tall blonde Scandinavian type, at nineteen a cover girl in great demand by leading fashion photographers, at twenty-eight the bride of a highly respected jurist, at thirty a widow, had large blue eyes set at a wide tilt, gaunted cheekbones, flawless fine-grained translucent skin, perfect teeth nervously working on her fingernails. Impatiently she brushed aside the amenities and expressions of condolence.
“I need your help, Mr. Jordan.”
“To do what?”
“The police have made it quite clear that they consider me a prime suspect. I don’t like it and I’m frightened. I need legal advice. I need a lawyer. I know that my husband thought very highly of you. In the twenty-four hours before he died he mentioned your name several times. I am asking you to represent me.”
“Did you kill your husband?”
“No,” she said emphatically.
“All right.” So I was back in the case whether the enforcement people liked it or not. I said, “They haven’t accused you openly yet, have they?”
“Mr. Jordan, they went through everything in this house, with special attention to my bedroom and my possessions. I know they were looking for a weapon. I reiterate, I am innocent. I admit that Edwin and I were not getting along, but we still had our good moments. I liked being married to him; I liked the distinction. A judge and his lady perch high up on the social scale. A judge’s position is — how shall I phrase it...?”